


With These Hands of Mine

by AssistedRealityInterface



Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America, Iron Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hand Kink, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssistedRealityInterface/pseuds/AssistedRealityInterface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is very particular about his hands. Steve has a certain affection for them. A lot of awkward flirting and dates center on this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With These Hands of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the SteveTony fest on tumblr! I wrote it for billiondollarsuperhero, who is a great friend and totally deserves some good fic. I think you all do, too! Therefore, I will share. Enjoy!

Tony was meticulous about a lot of things, and his hands were situated comfortably at the top of that list.

When he thought about it, it was logical, really. His hands opened up his computer, repaired his robots, created his suits, built his machines, touched his partners, and held his coffee steady. His hands functioned as his sole tether to the world; if Tony could not touch things, he was not a part of them.

He liked hands; the finest anatomical machinery in existence. Hands had held the human race up, pulling it up to great heights. They were the most complex machines in the body; a multitude of little bones, all of which served a greater purpose. Cogs in humanity's clock.

Tony was always careful with his hands, possibly even more careful with them than he was with the reactor. He was gentle with them; lotion and gloves and, on occasion, manicures with Pepper. (He'd gotten Rhodey to come along too, once or twice.)

Of all the dumb, reckless things that Tony did, screwing around with his hands was not one of them. (At least, not in the metaphorical sense.)

Except today's deck of fate was stacked against him. And so it was that Tony sat in his lab, fiddling, with Steve perched beside him, unaware of what was about to occur.

"You know, I still don't know why you come down here," Tony said, gesturing to Steve with one elegant hand as he worked. "You could go upstairs and talk to Phil; you could train with the boys, or go out to the park and draw. Instead you sit in my lab and listen to me prattle on about classic rock sung long after you went MIA."

Steve gave him a small smile, shifting nervously on his stool as he perched, watching Tony work. Tony quirked an eyebrow, as if expecting an answer; Steve ducked his head, clinging to his sketchbook like a lifeline.

"Well," he said, keeping his voice modest and quiet, "you're a great model, for one. I haven't gotten half so many gesture drawings since I've been coming down here. And besides...I do like talking to you. Even if I'm not entirely sure what either of us is saying."

"Huh, well; you're learning," Tony said. "Where did the name Black Sabbath come from?"

"Wasn't it a horror movie?" Steve asked.

"Good boy," Tony said, patting his shoulder before returning to work.

He fiddled in peace for awhile longer until Steve said, his voice trembling with hesitancy at breaking the silence, "And your hands. I love drawing your hands."

"Oh?" Tony asked, putting the console down and turning to him. "How come, Steve?"

Steve smiled nervously as Tony focused his full attention on him; god, was his stare ever intense. Steve could melt and die and be re-formed, like a man of clay and dirt, beneath that bright, all-seeing gaze.

"They're so expressive," he replied. "Your mother was Italian, right? Howard said something like that."

"She was, yeah," Tony said, the usual tic developing in his jaw at the very mention of his father's name. "I picked it up from her. And my name, actually. Howard called me Anthony for as long as he could."

"Tony suits you much better," Steve murmured, his voice warm. "You're not an Anthony Edward. That's a family name; you're...you're too much of a _you._ "

Tony laughed, putting his hand over his mouth to hide a flash of brilliant teeth. Steve licked his lips before he could stop himself; his face burned when he realized what he'd done. Tony didn't seem to notice, pressing on.

"Oh, and what else?" He asked, giving Steve a big, curious grin. Steve's face burned.

"Well, uh, they're meticulously well-maintained," he said. "And your fingers are thin and delicate, and your palms look so soft. You work so hard, but you have the most brilliant hands I've ever..."

He trailed off, his blush deepening. Tony looked like a particularly satisfied cat, canary feathers dripping from his enormous grin.

"You really know how to give a compliment, Steve," Tony said, leaning back in his seat. "So that's why you're sitting down here? You're in love with my hands?"

Steve's entire face went bright red. "Oh, god, I—Jesus, no, that'd be awful!"

Tony just laughed, shaking his head and turning back to his work. The sputtering protests from behind him distracted his thoughts; when he moved his hands, he didn't pick up the hunk of chestplate sitting on his worktable to be welded.

The huge, razor-sharp piece of torn metal ripped across his palm and fingers. For a second, Tony didn't feel the pain.

Then he was swamped with a wave of agony, being dragged down to the depths of his pain all at once. He screamed, yanking his hand away, and clutched the gash, his chest fluttering wildly with the effort it took to breathe.

Tony looked around, half-mad with the need to fix things; he could see a thousand and one solutions to repair a machine in his lab, but nothing to fix his hand.

"Ssh," a voice murmured in his ear as a warm hand held his wrists. "Oh, hush, Tony. It's okay. Hold still, I'm going to fix this. Breathe for me, okay?"

"Breathing," Tony promised, "breathing, honest. Steve, you gotta fix it, you _gotta_ , my _hand_ —"

"Tony, ssh, ssh," Steve whispered, rubbing his wrist and feeling his panicked pulse as he rifled through his pockets with his free hand. "Ssh, come here, ssh, come here..."

Tony pushed his hand at him, smearing blood on his shirt. "Oh, Jesus, sorry, I can pay for that—"

"Tony, stop, you're fine," Steve cut him off, producing the roll of bandages he kept in his pocket. "Come here, Tony. I'm going to patch this up, okay? We'll fix it up better later, but let's just stop the bleeding for the moment."

Tony swallowed, holding out his shaking hand as Steve wrapped his bandages around it. He wrapped it the same way he wrapped his hands before going off on a punching bag, trying to beat the past into its leather and out of his heart; he stroked Tony's palm, careful and attentive, winding soft cloth around his hand.

Tony groaned and shivered, but grit his teeth against tears. Steve stroked his hair for a brief moment, cooing comfortingly. 

"You're doing okay," he promised, rubbing his wrist. "You're okay. You don't need to cry if you don't want to. It's okay, I'm here."

He looked up at the ceiling. "JARV? Mind calling a doctor? Tony could use stitches, I think."

_"Certainly, sir."_

"No, wait," Tony rasped, "wait, wait—if I get stitches, then I can't work, and—and what about my _hand_ , Steve, what if I can't _work_ —"

"You're going to be fine," Steve murmured, tracing a little heart pattern into his wrist. "We'll get this fixed up, and as long as you're careful with your hand for a week, we should be all right. You and I will find something fun to do while your hand heals up, okay?"

"Okay," Tony groaned, "okay. Okay. Like..."

He grinned, vague and weak, as Steve helped him up the stairs.

"Like a date?" He asked. Steve huffed, shaking his head and smiling.

"Sure," he said. "Very funny."

"No, seriously—do you wanna—"

Steve turned to Tony, incredulous, as he stood at the foot of the stairs.

"...Really?" He asked.

Tony nodded, wordless. There was too much he wanted to say to the sweet, gentle man standing in front of him who had patched up his hand.

 _"The doctor is on their way, Antho_ ny," JARVIS said, cutting through his pause.

"Right," Tony mumbled. "Right, uh, so—so we can do that. If you want."

"I'd like that quite a bit, yes," Steve murmured, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead before he could stop himself. When he realized what he'd done, he jerked his head back, his face red. Tony laughed.

"You cold-hearted pervert," he said, hiding a grin as they headed into the kitchen, "giving me a kiss before you've even taken me for a date."

"I'm sorry," Steve apologized, wringing his hands with quick, nervous jerks. Tony chuckled.

"Don't be," he said, taking his uninjured hand in Steve's for the briefest of seconds before sitting down with a fistful of paper towels, trying to staunch the bleeding further.

...

The doctor was quick and efficient; Tony was neatly stitched up, given a list of exercises to keep his hand busy, and told not to exert himself for a week at least. Steve kept the wound neatly dressed and bandaged, applying the antibiotic cream on his skin when necessary.

Tony was a bundle of manic energy without the lab to be in; he took Steve on a dizzying amount of dates, sometimes more than once a day. Steve was taken to every five-star restaurant, every classy art museum, and every tiny, comfy coffee shop that spanned the length and breadth of the five boroughs. 

Tony held his hand and promised him Malibu when they talked; promised him warm beaches and lowing, soft waves, plenty of time to walk and talk. Steve didn't voice his concern that Tony had never done this before; he knew the most likely answer, and didn't want it anyway. None of that mattered now.

Still, he wondered if his promise would hold once his hand healed.

Steve sighed, looking at the calendar and frowning. It was time for the bandages to come off, as long as Tony was sufficiently healed. He had to at least check.

Steve looked up at the ceiling and asked, "JARV? Is Tony home?"

 _"I am afraid not, sir_ ," JARVIS replied. Steve raised an eyebrow.

"I see," he said. "So where is he?"

 _"I cannot tell you, sir,"_ JARVIS said, sounding almost pleased. " _It is a surprise._ "

Steve heaved a sigh and smiled, shaking his head and heading upstairs into the living room. Tony was as ridiculous as always. 

He settled in on the couch and closed his eyes, taking a quick snooze. His breathing slowed, and he stilled, at ease.

"Hey, soldier."

Steve cracked open an eye to see Tony leaning over the couch, a huge smile on his face and two unbandaged hands supporting his grip on Steve's shoulders.

"Hi yourself," Steve rasped, his lips curling up into a lazy smile. "What is it, Tony?"

Tony beamed, hefting himself over the back of the couch to perch in front of Steve, an envelope clenched in his hand.

"Went back to the doc and got an all-clear for my hand," he said, waving his uninjured hand in front of Steve. A thin white line still crossed his palm, but he'd been careful; Steve could believe it might not scar.

"And what else?" Steve asked, tilting his head. "JARVIS said you had a surprise."

"Well, I hope," Tony replied. "I mean, look, you don't have to if you don't want to, I mean, I don't wanna force you into more pity-dates—"

"Tony," Steve cut him off, "none of this was about pity. I need you to trust that."

Tony swallowed, watching him with wide eyes.

"Okay," he finally said after a beat of silence had passed between them. "Okay. You are definitely gonna want to pack your bags, then."

"What?" Steve asked, blinking. 

Tony ripped open the envelope he was holding, took Steve's hand, picked it up, and dumped two plane tickets into his palm.

Steve read the tickets, openmouthed. 

"M-Mali—"

"I promised you Malibu, didn't I?" Tony said, a huge grin on his face. "I figured this could be our 'Tony's hand got healed up' getaway. What do you think?"

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," Steve said, "as long as I'm going with you."

It was finally Tony's turn to blush; Steve smiled, shaking his head.

"We'll have fun," he promised. "You and I, together."

Tony nodded, dumbstruck. His eyes were shining bright, and his hand was holding Steve's, and that was all the answer the Captain needed.

He lifted Tony's other hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Kisses make everything better," Tony said, giving him a smile.

Steve lifted his head up and pressed a kiss to Tony's lips, sweet and warm, the feeling making them both shiver as they held one another tight, sinking into the couch.

"Sure do," Steve agreed, holding Tony's hands tight against his chest, pressed to the beat of his heart.


End file.
